


when you're feeling small (I'll love your shadow)

by snogboxandahalf



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blowjobs, M/M, Nostalgia, idek what happened to this, it started fluffy and civil war just fucked me up i guess, lots of nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:58:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6818341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogboxandahalf/pseuds/snogboxandahalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky isn't right and all Steve wants to do is to make it better </p><p>(it started out with a sketchbook and it ended with a post-it)</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you're feeling small (I'll love your shadow)

**Author's Note:**

> I hate myself but more importantly I hate Stucky. I'm Stucky trash, apparently? I mean like thanks a lot Civil War this is what you've done to me. 
> 
> **IMPORTANT: there are no Civil War spoilers in this, so please enjoy!! 
> 
> Also I listened to a lot of Amy Winehouse while I wrote this and I should've been studying for World so I really have no idea if this is good or not....please comment and tell me I'm valid. 
> 
> Title from Shadow by the Bleachers.

Steve smiles at the view in front of him and reaches for his sketchbook. Bucky is sprawled out on the sofa with an arm thrown over his eyes and soft breaths disturbing the strands of hair covering his mouth. It’s the most peaceful Steve has seen him since they were little kids and all they cared about was who won that night’s game. 

Slowly, Bucky comes to life on the page below Steve’s fingers, his face worry-free and a soft smile on his lips. Bucky’s metal arm rests on his stomach as it moves up and down with his breaths, and Steve grins widely. He has dozens of memories of Bucky passed out no their ratty old sofa after a long shift at the factory, his boots still on and his jacket thrown haphazardly across the back of the couch. Steve’d sometimes be making dinner, or doing bills, or, on rare occasion, he’d get back from work after Bucky and be too tired to make it to his bed, so he’d just curl up on the sofa next to his best friend and tug a blanket over them both. (Sometimes he woke up to an arm around his waist and a pair of lips on his neck, but he didn’t ever mind).

Steve’s skin prickles with the memory and he thinks about the way they used to touch, the way they used to _feel_. He has yet to feel anything even close to the way he felt when Bucky was in his arms. Steve misses that, sometimes. He misses the stolen kisses and the muffled moans. Their army days were full of whispers and secrets and untamable passion, and sometimes Steve thinks he would give up everything he has today for just one more night where Bucky would sneak into Steve’s tent and they would hold each other till the sun rose and the light would shine through the thin tarpaulin, bathing their bodies in muted gold.

Steve thinks about it now, sitting in the fancy armchair across from the soft leather couch. He wonders what might’ve happened if he hadn’t been frozen, if Bucky hadn’t fallen out of that train car. Steve might’ve married Peggy, but she may have wanted more than a man who could never love her fully. Steve was meant to be with Bucky, he’s sure of it. He knows it just like he knows his mother’s name is Sarah. His heart beats, has always beat, for James Buchanan Barnes. 

His fingers are black with charcoal as he puts the sketchbook down, the finished drawing a masterpiece as far as Steve is concerned. For a moment, he considers laying down with Bucky, but it’s ridiculous. They won’t both fit on the couch, not now, and besides, Bucky has barely let Steve in the same room as him since he’s come back, much less touch him. Steve stands, stretches, then heads into the bathroom to wash the charcoal off his hands. The water is running black and he thinks about that time, all those years ago, when he was praying to not get rejected from the army again. He remembers cursing his heart problems and his asthma and his childlike frame. He wonders if it might have been better if Erskine had never found him, had picked someone else to be Captain America. Bucky would’ve died at that Hydra base, yes, but he wouldn’t be _this_. He wouldn’t be reclusive and angry and cold. He isn’t Bucky anymore, not really. Steve wonders if maybe that’s what Bucky wanted, rather than this. The water turns clear again as the charcoal comes off his fingers and Steve shakes his head and splashes some water in his face. It’s better to have Bucky here, no matter how broken he is. It’s better. 

Steve walks back out to find Bucky awake and examining the drawing. Steve feels heat rush to his cheeks and steps forward to grab the sketchbook, but Bucky looks up at Steve with piercing blue-grey eyes and he stops dead. 

“I was awake, you know. I woke up ten minutes in.” Bucky says, and his voice is gravelly. Steve blushes fiercely and opens his mouth to apologize, but Bucky keeps talking. “You didn’t notice, you were too busy drawing, and I didn’t want to interrupt you. I remember how you loved to draw. You could’ve become an artist, you know? It’s a shame you became Captain America instead.” Steve smiles in spite of himself. It’s good to have Bucky’s humor back, if only for a second. 

“Yeah, it’s a shame.” Steve turns to leave, but before he can get halfway to the door, Bucky’s voice stops him.

“You could stay, you know, if you like. This couch is big enough for the both of us, last time I checked.” Steve turns back around, and something in Bucky’s eyes is begging for him to stay. Suddenly it’s 1941 and it’s Bucky’s last night before he leaves and that same pleading look is running through those same wide eyes and Steve can’t bring himself to say no. 

The couch is soft and Bucky’s weight is odd next to him, familiar and strange all at once. Their words are stunted at first as the air between them hangs heavy and thick. The silence that falls is deafening, and Steve is just starting to think this was a bad idea when Bucky starts to speak. 

“Do you remember Christmas Eve, ’38? God, we were such idiots that year. Mom wanted us at theirs for Christmas day but for Christmas Eve it was just you and me.” Bucky smiles, and it’s not as big as it used to be, but it brings back memories of long summer days and even longer summer nights.

“Was that the year we tried to go ice skating in Rockefeller Center? I remember you didn’t want to but I made you, right?” 

“I never liked ice skating,” Bucky shrugs, and for a second it’s just like old times.

“If I remember correctly we got kicked out for disorderly conduct.”

“Uh uh. _You_ got kicked out for disorderly conduct. I just followed along. It was you who threw the first punch. Something about ‘disrespecting the army’ if I recall?” Bucky smiled at Steve and the corners of his eyes crinkled up, and Steve found himself longing to kiss Bucky just one more time. 

“You didn’t have to follow me. I was just, you know, being a good guy.” Steve shrugged, and Bucky shook his head in disbelief. 

“A good guy? Steve, you got into every fight you could! Besides, if hadn’t stopped that guy from beating you up I don’t think you’d be sitting here today.” 

“You stopped a lot of guys, Buck.” Steve said, and suddenly the room was a little heavier. Bucky didn’t say anything, just looked at the drawing still in his hands. 

“You kept me sane, Steve. At first, when they–when they were torturing me. You kept me sane. I thought of you, thought of how strong you are. I couldn’t let them break me because I knew you were coming back. I stayed strong for you. And then–and then they showed me the paper. It was you, on the cover, that awful picture of you in your propaganda gear. It said you were missing. It said you were presumed dead, that your plane had crashed in the arctic. I thought it was fake, I really did. I held out hope, I prayed that you were coming. But then one day I realised…I realised you weren’t. You weren’t coming back for me. And I’m not you, Steve. I’m not as strong as you. I broke. It was October 17th, 1942. That was the day I gave up. I’m sorry, Steve.” Bucky finishes and looks up at Steve with a horrible mix of remorse and fear and guilt displayed across his face, and Steve looks back at him with eyes full of forgiveness. 

“ _Buck,_ ” It’s all Steve needs to say before Bucky is kissing him like a man possessed, his hands pulling Steve closer, closer, until their chests are flush against one another. Bucky’s hands roam Steve’s chest, sliding underneath his shirt and touching the skin that he missed for sixty seven long years. Steve shudders as the cold metal of Bucky’s hand touches his bare skin, but breaks away from the kiss long enough to strip out of his t-shirt entirely. Bucky makes a noise of approval and kisses Steve like he can’t get enough, like any second he’ll be ripped away and put back in that hell, like this is just a dream. 

Bucky pushes Steve down onto the couch below him, tugging off his own shirt before kissing the younger man harshly. These kisses are nothing like the ones they used to share at the army base, or even the ones that came with long winter nights sharing warmth underneath thin blankets. These are strong and pushy and insistent, and Steve doesn’t like it but Bucky is kissing him like it’s his last chance. 

Bucky grinds down slowly, and Steve lets out a low groan, fisting Bucky’s hair in his hand. It’s 1940 and they’re rolling around on the rooftop of their building underneath the stars. It’s 1937 and the grass is rough against their skin. It’s 1934 and they’re two terrified kids, trading hesitant kisses in the alleyway behind the cinema. Bucky feels like home. Steve smells burnt pot roast in his hair and sees a shoebox apartment in his eyes. 

Wet lips are kissing down Steve’s neck and he gasps loudly, grasping at Bucky’s back. Bucky grins into Steve’s neck, his stubble scraping the soft skin there. It’s 1942 and Steve has just rescued Bucky from the HYDRA base. The other men are asleep but Bucky is whispering incoherent thank yous into Steve’s neck and holding him like he couldn't ever dream of letting go. 

Bucky reaches down and tugs at the waistband of Steve’s sweats impatiently, and Steve grins and lifts up his hips, allowing Bucky to shove his pants to his knees. Not wasting any time, Bucky crawls down Steve’s body and mouths over the black fabric of Steve’s boxer briefs. Steve lets out breathy moans as the fabric becomes wet with saliva and precome. 

“God, Bucky, just–” Steve cuts himself off with a loud moan as Bucky tugs down his underwear and takes his cock into his mouth, immediately sinking down to the root. It’s summer of 1939 and the war is just around the corner but for right now all Steve can think about is Bucky’s strong hands grasping his hips and Bucky’s wet mouth covering his cock. On the soft leather sofa in 2016 or the springy old mattress in 1939 it doesn’t matter, all that matters is the way the world seems to start and end at Bucky’s mouth and Bucky’s body and Bucky’s hair and just _Bucky_. 

Not too much has changed, Steve thinks, as Bucky bobs obscenely up and down on Steve’s cock. It’s not too different from the scorching heat in the French summer when their tent was as thin as could be but they felt like they had their own little world to themselves regardless. Bucky’s mouth is hot and wet and tight and everything Steve remembered it as, wished it would be again. When Bucky does that _thing_ with his tongue, Steve isn’t able to hold back anymore. He lets out a loud noise that could’ve maybe been Bucky’s name, but he can’t dwell on it because Bucky is drawing his orgasm from him like he’s desperate for it, and Steve comes thinking about sunlight on taught skin and broken moans in the dead of night. 

When he comes down from his high, Bucky is kissing his neck and Steve can feel Bucky’s erection through his jeans, rubbing against his stomach. With practiced fingers, Steve reaches down and undoes the button, unzipping the fly and reaching inside Bucky’s pants. Bucky doesn’t react as Steve grasps his cock through the slit in his boxers, just shifts a little on top of him. 

Steve begins to slowly jerk him off, taking his time. Bucky groans low into Steve’s shoulder, placing sloppy kisses on whatever skin he can reach. It’s 1936 and they’ve both had long days but they need something _more_ , so they’re lying on the floor of their apartment and lazily kissing with a hand down each others pants. It’s easy and slow and simple, and they’ve done it a hundred times before, but it somehow still manages to be special after all those nights.

Bucky comes over Steve’s hand, groaning into Steve’s ear in the most familiar way, and that’s how they stay for a while. Steve pulls his hand out of Bucky’s pants and wipes it on his discarded t-shirt before wrapping his arm around Bucky’s torso and kissing his shoulder softly. Bucky relaxes into Steve’s chest, and for the first time Steve notices something on Bucky’s chest. It’s small, so small that Steve was able to miss it the when Bucky had taken off his shirt (less than half an hour ago, Steve reminds himself). 

Just over his heart, there’s an army identification tattoo, but it’s not Bucky’s. It’s Steve’s, and as he reads his own name inked onto Bucky’s chest he mentally promises to get a matching one of Bucky’s. Steve feels a tear drip down his cheek and leans forward to place a soft kiss to Bucky’s chest, directly over his beating heart. 

 

When Steve wakes up, Bucky is nowhere to be found, but there’s a yellow post-it note stuck to his forehead with a phone number of a tattoo parlor on it. It’s the first step, Steve thinks, and it’s a good one. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr : fake-taylorswift  
> (art blog) : jhart160


End file.
